You turn on the stove, blue fire coming into your view. Hidden in your duffle bag is a dull package, brimming with taste. Slowly and delicately, you pick up the creature, almost screaming at the warmth of the crude furby, its fur soft and plastic, feeding your gluttony ever so slightly. With your other hand, you open the bottle of oil and slam the slick liquid unto the frying pan. It sizzles in response. You caress the furby one last time, before giving it to the hands of death.
The furby turns on at that exact moment, kicking around and dancing in the frying pan. What a marvelous creature! The pinnacle of technology screaming for its life, repeating the same wicked lines over and over with clear disgust. The furby's coat of fluff burns and becomes akin to charcoal. Just like a pack of worms biting into the flesh of its prey, the fire spreads. A flash of pain courses through the furbys expression, electronic eyes pleading for salvation. You turn the heat up.
A gooey liquid squirms out of the furby as it agonizes against the scorching metal. It sizzles and bubbles right before your eyes, thick and delicious. The furby shuts down, darkness filling its once pleading orbs. The liquid consumes the furby, tainting the poor creature with the odor of burnt metal screeches its ways into your nasals, you are delighted. As you sprinkle salt and pepper on top of the corpse, you being to feel impatient. You try to drink the heavy ooze, but it melts your sinful tongue before you can even come to terms with the fact that you mustn't be agitated. Your meal slowly decays and breaks into medium pieces, all united by a set of ruined wires and machinery. Mouth ruined, you still laugh. Your meal is complete.
You turn the stove off. You take out a fork and poke the creature's cat-like, rubbery ears. The furby is steaming with death. You open your dirty little mouth, and you maul the creatures artificial veins with your machiavellian fangs, tearing it into even tinier pieces. You are filled with an ungodly happiness, adrenaline devouring your stomach an your mind. All you know is the taste of furby. All you can love is the taste of furby. All you can see, all you can touch is this small creature with an angelic taste, is this euphoria, is this moment. You could die at this exact moment, you could stop breathing, for life would never be worth it without the furbys soft embrace. But your greed, no--your gluttony takes over your mind, begging for more and more and more. You can't stop now. You can't stop today. Furby is the only one, the only one that can make you happy. Disgust splashes across your mind, guilt hammering its way into your senses. But you, you don't care.
This is your life now. It tastes like furby.